Don't Fight the Bullet, Don't Fight the Gun
by Emeli Thorne
Summary: It takes him a few days to gather up the courage, after he had dealt with Schoonover, to even step on the driveway let alone to dare step a foot in the house. A short fic based on the scene from S02E13 when Frank goes back to his family house. It's an exploration of his thoughts and memories as he lets go of one identity and embraces the other - the Punisher.


It takes him a few days to gather up the courage, after he had dealt with Schoonover, to even step on the driveway let alone to dare step a foot in the house.

The key is in the lock and his hand trembles slightly as he takes a breath, knowing what awaits him behind the door. He hesitates, stands there for god knows how long before finally pushing the door open. He has some trouble at first but manages to get in, noticing a huge pile of letters, bills, and newspapers that have been stacked behind the door since... since that day.

He crouches, takes the papers that are closest to him, presumably one of the more recent editions.

Frank makes no move to turn on the lights; knows everything's been disconnected months ago. As he paces through the ground floor, he takes note of the cold governing the house, gripping at his boot soles. Takes note of darkness devouring what had been their life, their memories, only shadows inhabiting what was once a joyful household.

The house doesn't feel like his house anymore.

A stale smell accompanies the cold – it erased the sweet scent of Maria's perfume she only ever used when he was away because he was allergic to the ingredients, the stink of Frank Jr.'s sneakers he wore whenever he played soccer, the smell of freshly made chocolate chip cookies Lisa had baked for him the day he returned.

The house doesn't smell like his family anymore.

His heart sinks a little into oblivion he's conjuring up.

He's standing in the small foyer, looking at the old piano Maria and he bought for Frankie after he developed a sudden interest in music. _I like the notes. They're all curvy and strange lookin', I like how they sound_ , he remembers Frankie saying. Remembers all the lessons he had before his last deployment and a few 'concerts' he held for his dad whenever Frank managed to get in touch with them. Remembers Frankie's stern and concentrated expression whenever he played – eyes closed, a small frown etched on his face as his fingers flew over the piano keys then suddenly opening them at the parts he wasn't so sure about - his satisfied grin when they would all applaud for his performance – Maria and Lisa leaping off the couch, hugging and kissing his little boy and the deep ache in his heart from the inability to be there with them too.

There's an array of framed photographs on the piano, all featuring a happy, beaming family that make his gut wrench.

Memories.

There's one from a Halloween from about two years ago. All four of them are sitting on the back porch, Lisa and Frank Jr. sitting in front of Maria and him, each holding a Jack-o'-Lantern in their lap.

That particular year he came back from his tour unexpectedly, mere days before the holiday. The kids were over the moon, jumping on him, hugging him every chance they got, asking him to play with them, read them their favourite stories, sing their favourite lullaby, talking his ear off about everything that had been going on while he was away.

Those first few nights, Maria kissed every inch of his skin and he returned the favour, worshipping her the way he had been imagining doing for months. He craved her, body and soul and wasted no chance in showing it to her.

He missed them so much, _his family_ , dreamed of them every night, wished to be there with them and hated himself for allowing stray thoughts to enter his mind: _you're better off here, this is where you belong. In dirt, sand, and bloodbath. This is where you strive._

It's that year that Lisa insisted she go dressed as a soldier 'cause _I want to be just like you daddy, save lives, be a hero_. Frank recalls begging her to choose some other costume, anything but that. He couldn't bear to see his little girl in anything even remotely resembling an army uniform without remembering all the youngsters from his platoon he witnessed dying, unable to save them. Their screams, images of their mutilated bodies, and blown off limbs haunt his dreams and reality.

 _I'm no hero_ , he wants to tell her. _Daddy kills people, sweetheart. He kills people and he likes doing it._

He doesn't tell her that then, never tells anyone because that's not who Frank Castle, _a husband and father_ , is. _Was._

That's who _Lieutenant_ Frank Castle of the US Marine Corps is, that's who _scout sniper_ Frank Castle, Class 307 is. _Is._

Lisa ended up going as a faerie. Frankie was hell bent on dressing as a cowboy. They carved out their pumpkins, went trick or treating with their dad while Maria stayed at home to clean up the mess they made.

Those were few good months. And then he had to go back, had to stop being Frank Castle, Lisa and Frank Jr.'s dad, and once again become _Lieutenant_ Frank Castle.

He approaches the piano gradually, touches the solitary 'J' carved into the wooden lid. The letter brings back another memory: Frankie wanting to carve in his name so that everyone knew it was _his_ and not Lisa's piano. For some reason, everyone assumed Lisa was the one playing and the boy took that as a great affront. Maria flew off the handle when she saw what the kid did. Frank... Frank was always the parent who let them do what they wanted – he was away far too much to demand any kind of obedience from them.

Frankie never got around to add the 'r'. He either forgot or stopped caring about what people assumed. Then the shooting happened and...

The 'J' is forever destined to remain alone.

His heart sinks even further, gulps as the freezing arms of his inner darkness pull at it.

Frank pushes back the lid to uncover the keys, finger hovering over them. His fingers itch to press at least one key, to fill in this deafening silence that's holding him by the throat, choking him.

He can't do it. Can't break the death curse that has descended upon what lifetimes ago was his home.

The cold has reached his fingers now.

Moving further into the house, he enters a small living room, the window washed in a weak gleam of light coming from the outside. Everything else is darkness, shadows, and dust collected in the corners, between the furniture pieces, on the mantelpiece.

There's newspapers spread out on the coffee table, turned on the page featuring the daily crossword. Maria finished it only partially, he recalls, before she called them all down for breakfast.

He looks to his right and the air is knocked right out of his lungs. Their laughter and giggles drum in his ears, taunt him to turn around completely and face the empty dining table. He stays rooted in place as the images of their last breakfast together flash in his mind.

She was wrong.

Miss Page.

 _Karen_.

Their bowls are still there, on the table, along with his and Maria's coffee mugs and the kids' mugs that were filled with cocoa.

Tossing the newspapers he is holding on the table, he sits in the nearest chair. His chair. The one just across Maria's. He struggles to breathe evenly, his breath coming out in rapid huffs.

The air is stale, the house frozen, the silence ubiquitous, and he can't breathe without inhaling the memories of that fateful day, one after another.

It's an onslaught of Frankie's snorts as a cereal gets stuck in his windpipe because he is laughing too hard at Lisa's joke while eating, of Lisa's raspy laughter as she laughs at her joke _and_ Frankie's situation, the image of Maria leaning over in her bright yellow dress to pat her son on the back as he coughs the cereal out of his mouth.

The cold has now reached his chest – sharp and icy.

His heart is sunk, forever lost in the bottomless depths of his being.

He told her, _Karen_ , back when he was still in the hospital, that he worried the memories were just gonna go away.

Well, he ain't worried anymore 'cause they're all back, each one like a punch to his gut, arrow to his heart, bullet after bullet to his brain.

When he came back this time, the last time, he couldn't take Maria to bed. He couldn't even speak to her. Couldn't look at his kids, play with them, sing them the lullaby they liked. Read his little girl that story.

He was bone tired, his soul heavy with the lives he took and didn't feel sorry for, his conscience eating at him for Schoonover's offer that felt and still feels dirty, immoral, wrong.

That's not why they were risking their lives. Not why he left his family for.

 _I'm damaged_ , he remembers thinking over and over again as he lay awake in their bed, fearing when Maria would come into the room because she'd know straight away the burden weighing heavy on his mind.

She would know.

She always knew.

When she finally did come in, after finishing with her night routine, he turned away from her.

Maria said nothing at first, but rather went under the cover, resting her arm around his waist. She kissed his shoulder blade. _I got you_ , she said. _I love you, Frank. I got you._

Frank cried that night holding his wife's arm tightly around his waist, fingers intertwined. He never turned around to face her.

He breaks this painful memory chain by looking down, seeking to compose himself only to be faced with the newspaper lying before him.

He unfolds it.

 **FRANK CASTLE DEAD** , the headline says. Straight, to the point.

He focuses on the headline, focuses on the skull x-ray adorning the front page and thinks how Frank Castle is, for all intents and purposes, and to the world, _dead_.

All that is left is this damn hollow, bullet-damaged skull and nothing else.

He thinks how the skull must be another one of the shadows, only this one is not haunting the house but him.

He saw it at his trial, this x-ray actually - black and white and amply analysed by the experts. Saw it back in prison after he had slaughtered those motherfuckers that came after him – in a water puddle as a reflection on his once crispy white prison uniform, then emblazoned with a bloody imprint of an inmate's face that horridly resembled this x-ray.

Tears burn his eyes – he hasn't really allowed himself to cry since their death. That graveyard conversation with Red, that was his first breakdown and it was only the tip of the emotional iceberg that has yet to be explored.

Frank Castle is fading.

The cold is in his throat now. Scratching, reaching up his mouth, his nose.

Frank Castle is fading.

He is looking at that skull, the skull is looking right back at him.

Blink.

Frank Castle is fading.

###############

In a split second, they reach an agreement.

Frank Castle is fading.

Vest in hand, he enters the tool shed and gets to work.

Resolute. Calculated.

He sets the vest on the worktable, takes a moment to check the police scanner situated on it. Taking a flashlight and turning it on, he places it between his teeth, then takes a can of spray-paint and starts creating his new identity.

Frank Castle is fading.

Embrace the skull.

#############

He soaks the kitchen, the living room, everything in sight in gasoline. He does it methodically, effectively blocking out any and all memories now because Frank Castle is dying.

Pausing for a moment, he takes in the shrine his family created for him above the fireplace. All of his war accomplishments, awards for doing what _Lieutenant_ Frank Castle, _scout sniper_ Frank Castle, Class 307 did best – killing.

His gaze traces the photographs and medals hanging on the wall. Him and his comrades looking fierce and determined, but in fact being foolishly naive amidst the war chaos. Only the first time, though. The second time around... Well.

Next, he looks at their group photograph with their Colonel, Schoonover, who looks all mighty and proud. The man who he presumed was his friend, who spoke so highly of him on the stand, the one who took his family away from him.

Rage builds inside him tightening his chest, a lump forming in his throat as Blacksmith's words echo in this hollow skull of his.

 _You could have been rich, and maybe you could have taken your family to the Bahamas instead of Central Park._

 _Alright, they call you the Punisher. Prove it._

He punches the framed photograph imagining it was that son of a bitch he hit, blood boiling in his veins for that brief moment. Crumpling the photograph, he tosses it, instead taking a CD hidden in the frame behind it with MICRO inscribed on it.

Frank Castle is fading.

Frank Castle, _a father_ , is dead.

He closes the front door behind him.

Frank Castle is fading.

Frank Castle, _a husband_ , is dead.

Walks down the stairs, doesn't look back.

Focused. Determined.

Frank Castle is fading.

 _Lieutenant_ Frank Castle of the US Marine Corps is dead.

The house explodes behind him as he walks away, armed to his teeth, flames devouring all that once was Frank Castle.

A husband.

A father.

A Marine.

 _Their_ house, _their_ home, _their_ memories - are disappearing in the fire _he_ started. It's the same as the fire that has been consuming him since the day he woke up in that hospital and found out they were dead. Gone. Back no more.

Behind him, the orange flames are turning his former life into ashes.

Inside him, the cold has reached his bullet-damaged brain.

The skull is glowing, feeding off the flames.

Frank Castle fades.

There is a void where he used to be.

Frank Castle is dead.

A savage is now truly born.

The Punisher is born.

Long live the Punisher.


End file.
